On Sunday's Shoulders
by small fries
Summary: their lives ultimately congruent, brady and chloe begin to unravel their own complexities and see the light in each other.
1. Morning Jog.

(1) Morning Jog  
  
  
  
It was strange how the sun no longer hurt his eyes. There was a time when all he knew were the dark confines of his room. There was a time when the sun's chipper ambience made him want to vomit. But now, as rays of sun seeped in through the kitchen window, Brady Black's habitually sour disposition tolerated and accepted it.   
  
He pulled the venetian blinds back, revealing the small city of Salem surrounding his family's cozy apartment abode. The morning light seemed to shine in every crevice of the town, disclosing information about everyone's lives.  
  
But not mine, Brady thought to himself. Because I won't let it. I won't let the light into my life, not after what it has taken from me. His convictions about life and its unfairness were cut short as his half-sister stepped into the kitchen yawning.  
  
"Brady," Belle asked him, "what are you doing up so early on a Sunday? Isn't your designated waking time at noon?" She tossed him a mischievous smile as she reached for a bowl from the cupboard.  
  
Brady flicked her right shoulder with his fingers as she walked by him. "I'll have you know that I'm trying to fit a cardiovascular activity into my schedule today." He grabbed his navy sweatshirt from the sofa in the living room and headed for the front door.  
  
Belle scrambled after her older brother, a bowl of Cheerios in hand. "Where are you going? It's nine in the morning and Mom was hoping you would drop by church today."  
  
"Tell your precious Marlena that her estranged son isn't about to become any less estranged," Brady snorted as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head. "I'm going for a jog, seeing as how the weather's been working in my favour today. Plus, the virtues of God don't exactly run through my veins, as we both know, Belle."  
  
"Stop doing that, Brady," she told him sternly.  
  
"Doing what?"  
  
"Playing the role of the indifferent stepson to Mom."  
  
Brady shot Belle a sharp glare and said, "Believe me; I'm not playing." And as he headed out the door: "My mom's dead, Isabella. Be sure to get that through your thick skull."  
  
  
  
  
  
So the sun wasn't completely after him, as he had first thought following his mom's death decades ago. Angry and isolated, Brady had locked himself in a self-constructed cage of grief and sadness. The cage somehow absorbed into his demeanour as he aged into a young man.  
  
He jogged languidly through Salem Park, not a soul in sight. Trees moved past his running form and faded behind him into the west. He headed towards the sun, pumping his thighs up and down, racing towards a solution for the loneliness he felt every morning when he woke up drenched in a cold sweat, never remembering fully the dream that caused him such fear.  
  
He just ran and ran, letting his sneakers pound the dirt path with every connecting stride. He ran, thinking of his mother gently sweeping the icy beads of perspiration from his brow at night. He ran, thinking about being a jailed teen in St. George's Academy for Boys filled with young men lacking any moral or ethic. He ran, thinking of two haunting blue eyes that had been teasing his convictions at night recently.  
  
The sun was rising higher up into the sky now and Brady could not stop moving his legs. He could no longer feel them as they cut into the cold autumn air. His breath condensed into a misty vapour before him. His steps carried him out of the park and into a picturesque neighbourhood with quaint elm trees dividing driveway after driveway.  
  
Brady ran, knowing full well where his feet were taking him.  
  
Finally, his running venture halted at an aging house with dark green ivy running over the gutters and down the wooden pillars that supported the decorous beige porch. Upon hearing a singsong chirrup exiting the house, Brady quickly forced himself behind the house's complementary elm tree.  
  
"And he stares / Through a murky window..." the raven-haired girl sang, "and the figure resembled her / Resembled him. And he stared / Knowing what to say / But the words could never / Do her right..." The young girl's song carried on for another verse, containing no conventional structure but creating its own accents, twists, and turns. Her long hair swung by her curved hips as she strolled down the driveway of the house. The words were her own, flowing from her mouth in an instinctive expression of every thought and memory floating through her mind.  
  
Still, Brady leaned against the elm, peering from the side at the Siren whose eyes he knew from the late of night. Those eyes made him ache, made him hurt, but still he coveted them; they made him dream of something richer than all his desires could conjure in a lifetime. He peered at her, black plastic-framed glasses resting on her face, her nose crinkling at the sight of the bright sun as she headed to the side of her house. He found himself furtively following her, hiding behind thorny rose bushes leading to the back of the ivy-covered house.  
  
Finally, he reached the rear area. She was no where in sight. Slowly, he emerged from the rose bushes, revealing his presence to the unkempt backyard.  
  
Without warning, a solid object connected with the back of his head. Brady fell facedown to into the tall grass, his knees hitting the ground hard.  
  
"Who are you?" a shrill voice came from behind him. "Why are you following me?"  
  
Brady got on his knees, rubbing the back of his head with a soft hand. "Ah, the indispensable Chloe Lane strikes again," Brady joked as he twisted his head to the side and noted the thick tree branch clenched in Chloe's tight fist. "Are you going for the Armed and Dangerous look today? Please let me be the first to inform you that it went out with Michael Jackson's career."   
  
"Brady?" Chloe breathed. Her eyes widened and for a second her foot moved to help him up. Quickly, she stopped herself and carried on her accusations. "What the hell were you doing? Trying to scare me by following me back here?"  
  
"Thanks for the apology," Brady muttered inaudibly. His eyes sheepishly dropped to the grass as he picked himself up. "Following you?" he replied to Chloe's questions. "Now why would I waste my time doing that when I could have just as easily put on a Halloween mask and yelled, 'Oogey boogey?'" He chuckled to himself, obviously hitting a sore spot in young girl before him.  
  
"Oogey boogey?" she snickered. "This coming from an almost adult." She crossed her arms in front of her chest.  
  
"What's the matter, Chloe? Too old for the likes of your Diva self?" Brady took a step towards the girl's solid stance. He closed the distance between them in one stride and loomed over her almost protectively, though Chloe told herself it was a vain attempt to intimidate her.  
  
"You're not fooling me, Brady Black," she told him. "I know why you're here."  
  
His heart was suddenly stabbed with fear. "You do?"  
  
Chloe nodded. "And let me tell you that my parents won't allow you hitch a ride with us to church, no matter how hard you beg," she explained, pushing her black frames snug against the bridge of her nose. "Mooch," she added for emphasis.  
  
Brady laughed uneasily. "Well, one can only hope to rely on motor vehicle transportation for a change. Seeing as how I already have a car," he sardonically stated, "and you still being the pitiful young learner that you are."  
  
"So, do you need a ride or not?" Chloe interrupted Brady, cutting his egotistical monologue short. "I guess I could convince them to let you come to church with us, as long as you keep your snide remarks to yourself."  
  
"My apologies, Ms. Diva," Brady replied, "but I won't be needing your services. Anyone who has an iota of intelligence would know that church is a crock of shit."  
  
"How can you say that? Your whole family believes in--"  
  
"And that relates to me how?"  
  
Chloe's mouth meekly clamped shut.  
  
"Look, Chloe," Brady continued, images of his mother flashing in his head, "God has never given me a reason to feel grateful for anything. Not a thing, you understand?"  
  
They stood there for a moment, both motionless in the swaying tall grass of Chloe's unusually tranquil house. Brady stared at her eyes. She could only stare back at his as she tried to unravel something concealed far behind them. He couldn't let her know what he was feeling; HE didn't even know that he was feeling. Brady tore his eyes away from hers.  
  
"Chloe," Brady said, cutting the silence, "I know what you're going to say, so just save it." His hands went into the pockets of his sweatshirt. "And seeing as how this just got boring, I'll be sure to make my exeunt as quickly as possible. You wouldn't want your parents to see you conversing with an ungrateful brat."  
  
Chloe made no attempt to stop Brady as he continued his jog through Salem, although a voice from deep within her honestly wished that she had.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
(smallfries@muted.com) 


	2. Unrequited.

(2) Unrequited  
  
  
  
Sunday came again quickly, and Chloe forced her reluctant body into the shower. The drops of water poured down her body, strangely washing away the pungent stench of defeat on her skin after last night's events.  
  
She tried to shake the thoughts of Philip on her bed, on top of her, wanting to be with her more closely than she would allow him. But he was compassionate; he understood her unwillingness. Chloe Lane wasn't ready to share herself with anyone, not after having her trust being broken again and again throughout her years as a social outcast.  
  
After learning her place in society, she realized that it wasn't so bad to constantly be ignored and unseen. She rather liked the solitude that it entitled her. When insomnia got the better of her some nights, instead of calling a close girlfriend for casual prattle, Chloe would sit cross-legged on her balcony and stare up at the cloudy night sky, the moon hanging right above her head as she quietly sang melancholy songs to herself. It never exuded a completely lonely feeling to her, sitting awake during the witching hours. At times it felt as though there were someone else awake at the same time, wondering where she was, wanting to come and sit beside her.  
  
Chloe would desperately try to convince herself that she wanted Philip to be the one who was thinking about her during the late hours of night. She honestly did. But the feeling of his offhand kisses and obligatory embraces made her think otherwise.  
  
She finally stepped out of the shower after thirty minutes of earnest contemplation. Her fingers and toes were wrinkled and her long hair was matted down to her scalp. How attractive, she thought to herself as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. She took a comb from the corner of the counter into her right hand and slid the plastic tines through her long brown hair. Staring oddly at herself for a moment, she put the comb down and took a section of her hair in hand. She looked down at it, expressionlessly.  
  
An array of memories from the few foster homes that she had lived in and survived swept through her mind. She envisioned her first foster father, Mark, and his fetid breath exhaling over her dark hair when his wife was working the graveyard shift. Mark would come into Chloe's room when she was eleven and tell her how pretty she was, grazing his fingers down her bare arms exposed by her sleeveless camisole. After that night, Chloe wore turtlenecks to sleep. But she could still remember his breath on her hair, the disgusting humidity of it hitting her forehead.  
  
"Chloe, dear," she heard her mother call from downstairs. "Are you daydreaming again? We're going to be late for church."  
  
"I'll be down in a minute," Chloe yelled back to Nancy. Slowly and deliberately, she took a pair of red-handled scissors from her dresser drawer and proceeded to cut the section of hair clutched in her left hand. Strand after strand, the polished metal blades cut through the luxurious chestnut hair, letting it fall to the cold bathroom tiles in a heap of sordid remembrance.  
  
  
  
  
  
Brady couldn't help himself. He stood against the familiar elm tree staring into Chloe's bedroom window, wondering why she wasn't outside. Her parents--they were trimmed and ready for their wasted day of gospel--stood by the front door of their house, awaiting Chloe for departure.  
  
Maybe she knows you're spying on her, a voice from inside of Brady scolded.  
  
Hey, he retorted to his gnawing conscience, she's been up there for God knows how long. She's never usually this late getting out of the house on Sundays.  
  
You should know, stalker.  
  
I'm NOT a stalker. I just happen to pass by here every week for my Sunday jog.  
  
Did you notice that you started with those Sunday canters of yours right after you met Chloe? Did you notice that, smart guy?  
  
Chloe's just a pain in the ass, ok? She makes me want to keep coming back with more retorts to her obnoxious comments. She's asking for it, you know.  
  
I know. She's been asking for it since she first met you.  
  
What did you say?  
  
The voice inside of him was not quick enough to respond as Brady heard screeching voices coming from Chloe's house. He leaned further to his left to see the reason behind the ruckus.  
  
"Chloe Lane!" Nancy was yelling from outside the front door into the house. "You are coming to church with us right now! I don't care how you look; you get your rear-end down here right this instant."  
  
Brady heard a barely audible reply from Chloe saying that she wasn't going with them.  
  
Her stepfather, Craig, grabbed Nancy by the elbow and resolutely closed the front door. He dragged his plump redheaded wife to the car, telling her, "Chloe's a young woman. She'll be all right at home for one Sunday, honey. Don't worry about her."  
  
"Craig, she's upset about something. I didn't even get a chance to see her all morning; she's been locked in that bathroom of hers for hours." Nancy continued her babble as the married pair finally got into their old black sedan and sped off towards the heart of Salem.  
  
Brady, having overheard the whole argument, wondered what was troubling Chloe. The Diva herself was afraid of something to make her miss her beloved Sunday at church.  
  
NOW would be a good time to talk to her, the familiar voice said to him, coming back to ring in Brady's ears.  
  
Right now?  
  
No time like the present, my friend. You know that's why you're here.  
  
What do I do? What do I say?  
  
The voice no longer replied to him. He was on his own if he wanted to see Chloe. He mustered up enough nerve to step onto her porch, realizing that he had never stood on it before, realizing how new all of this was to him, wanting to reach out to someone in an uncanny blur of emotions. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorbell and then it quickly fell back to his side.  
  
"I can't do this," Brady told himself. "It doesn't feel right talking to her when she's upset; I'm the last person she'd want to see."  
  
As if answering his lack of confidence, the sun seemed to radiate so brightly just then, atop his sneakers and then gradually up his legs. The sun that had always been such a traitor to him for as long as he could remember was finally shining on him. It was urging him towards something that could possibly give him the deliverance he could never find in anything, not even his retired faith in that divine being who was supposed to provide him with love and care. But the light could also be pushing him towards pain, rejection, and more pain.  
  
Brady dropped his hand for the last time and stared solemnly at Chloe's white front door. He shoved his clammy hands into his pockets and turned away from the light's failed attempt at luring him into another heartache. Silently, he continued the rest of his morning jog.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(smallfries@muted.com) 


	3. Bleeding for the Past.

(3) Bleeding for the Past  
  
  
  
Philip played with Chloe's now shoulder-length hair, twisting it into ringlets with his index finger then gently stroking her arm with his opposite hand. He lay on Chloe's mattress as she sat on the floor in front of him, binders and textbooks spread across the tan carpet.  
  
"I cannot believe you let your mom cut your hair," Philip told her. "It looked so beautiful down to your hips. Kind of royal and sophisticated, you know?"  
  
"I happen to like my hair shorter, Philip," Chloe rebutted. The fact that she had lied to him about her hair earlier in the day nagged at her slightly.  
  
Her mother hadn't taken to the sight of her short haircut easily. Nancy had yelled for an hour, telling Chloe how her long hair had given her "identity" and "uniqueness." Chloe had stood there silently, knowing that her shorter hair somehow dispelled a new optimism for her.  
  
"It's a Saturday night," Philip informed Chloe. "Homework is reserved for late Sunday evenings."  
  
Chloe shrugged insouciantly. "I like getting it done early, especially this History assignment," she said, pushing a library book beside Philip. "Look at it. It's about the concentration camps of Nazi Germany. It's actually quite interesting. There was this death camp called Auschwitz that the Jewish prisoners were taken to, although they didn't know what the Nazis were planning. But in the camp, they were basically prepared for their own dea--"  
  
"How can you be interested in that junk?" Philip interrupted her. He flipped through several pages in the book she had tossed him. "These people look sickly, that's all."  
  
"Sickly?" Chloe almost cried out to Philip's ignorance. "They were persecuted for their religion, persecuted because they were a prosperous people. They were persecuted for no good reason, really. And at what cost." She stole the book from Philip's hands.  
  
He chuckled lightly and covered Chloe's bare shoulders with his callused hands. "That's all History class diatribe," he told her. "I don't see why we have to learn so much about the past. What's done is done and there's nothing we can do to change anything."  
  
Chloe's heart stung with Philip's comment as she forced images of her foster parents slapping and screaming at each other, nails vehemently cutting into her own cheek. She reached a delicate hand to the fleshy part of her face and stared into empty space.  
  
"Chloe? What's wrong?" Philip softly called to her.  
  
"Oh," Chloe replied, startled and remembering that Philip was still in her room lying on her bed. "Nothing. I was just thinking about some things."  
  
"What kind of things? Memories?" he questioned her. He realized his wisecrack about the wounds of the past never being healed had struck Chloe inside. "Baby, please tell me what's wrong." He pulled at her hand and Chloe left her books to compliantly sit beside Philip on the bed.  
  
"It's just these horrible memories I have of the people whom I've had to live with over the past years. It was my way of life for as long as I could remember, Philip." Chloe's hands grasped for each other as she struggled with the words. "Now here I am in this cozy house, with Craig and Nancy. I have food on my plate, people who ask how me I am when I suddenly grow silent, locks on my doors in case..."  
  
"In case what?" Philip pushed Chloe, intrigued.  
  
Chloe shook her head and offered her boyfriend a counterfeit smile. "Just in case, you know, I want privacy with the one I truly care for." She planted a tender kiss on Philip's lips.   
  
"Chloe," Philip whispered into her ear. "I love you so much."  
  
She smiled again, this time happily. But for some reason, she could not give him the same response. Instead, she kissed him again ardently, pushing away the memories that threatened tears to fall from her eyes. She had promised herself never to shed tears for that life of hers ever again.  
  
Philip responded with the same passion, moving his lips down Chloe's neck and pushing the straps of her tank top off her shoulders. His lips moved down her smooth arms and back up again to her face, kissing her lips, cheeks, and jugular. His hands impulsively moved over her hips as he pushed her body further down onto the mattress, not thinking rationally and letting the sensual ambience between the two of them control his actions.  
  
Chloe, not quick enough to realize the change in Philip's usually proper conduct, let her body move with his. Their legs became entwined as her hands reached up to cup his heated face in her fingers. She felt his hands on her waist, moving down to her hips, then to her inner thighs.  
  
"We have to stop," Chloe told Philip in between kisses. "We can't do this."  
  
Philip seemed to take no notice of her words as his hands roamed around the most feminine areas of her body. "Chloe," he moaned into her ear. "I want you. Please, Chloe. I love you."  
  
She still couldn't force herself to say it back to him, nor could she allow herself to carry out the act that he wanted from her. The situation played in her mind as she recalled last Saturday night, when Philip's raw lips crushed hers like today as he pleaded from her the same answer.  
  
"Philip," Chloe cried out in a hoarse whisper. "I can't do this!" She intuitively pushed her hands against his solid chest and forced him to give space between her body and his.  
  
He stared at her with bewildered boyish eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought that you wanted--"  
  
"I could never want this, Philip!" she screamed at him. "Never! I can't... I just can't, Philip." Her body was suddenly wracked with sobs and shivers, her spine bent to let her head fall to her knees as she wept dry tears.  
  
"Shh..." Philip comforted her. He put his arms around her neck and pressed his forehead against hers. "Tell me what's wrong, Chloe. Did something happen to you? Please, tell me what's wrong."  
  
Chloe could only shake her head and lower her eyes from Philip's innocent gaze. She knew that she would never be able to tell him that she couldn't be with anyone intimately--not ever. Not after Mark had stolen something from her years ago. She would never be able to forget the pain and humiliation of Mark's breath on her hair. And no one would ever be able to change that.  
  
  
  
  
  
The apartment was yet again unlit and quiet, just the atmosphere Brady embraced with open arms. His father, stepmother, and sister were snug in bed with their sugar dumpling dreams. He walked through the moonlit rooms and found himself in his father's study. Inquisitive fingers dragged over the ignored books on the dusty shelf beside the tall windows of the room. His shaky hand automatically reached for a familiar book, a photo album of him as a child.  
  
Brady carried the leather-bound album to his father's tiny desk, turning on a diminutive desk lamp. Painstakingly, he flipped through the first few pages of the album, noting the short poem on the first page:   
  
  
Mother and Son   
  
Angel of God, my guardian dear   
For whom God's love commits me here   
Ever this day, be at my side   
To love and guard, rule and guide   
  
  
A frail smile crossed Brady's lips as his fingers traced the fancy calligraphy lettering and then proceeded to turn the page. His eyes rested on a picture of his mother who was laughing with a three-year-old toddler complete with sandy blonde hair and rose-coloured cheeks; the two of them were playing in a small jungle gym.   
  
He wished he had known her better, not just through aging sepia-toned photographs that lied about his mother's suffering and illness. He wished she had seen him grow up for a few more years. Just a few more years and she could have mended his missing swings in baseball, his choking cries in swimming class, and his cracked notes in choir class. But her presence at those events failed to ensue as he became the dunce in the corner, always acting out when kids asked him where his mom was as their own mothers came by to pick them up after school.  
  
Then there was St. George's Academy. Brady almost laughed to himself when he tried to remember the haughty voices of the boys who attended the school with him. For once he had had something in common with people his age; they, too, had been neglected by their own parents and had been sent away to boarding school as to not be a nuisance at home. Brady connected with the boys there for they, too, had no mother to come to them when they awoke from nightmares in the middle of night.  
  
He continued to flip through the book. His eyes once again rested on a photo of him and his mother laughing together. She was raising him in the air with her hands and his face was stretched into a wide grin. His eyes were closed and his arms were flailing. Brady remembered the feeling that he had had when the picture was taken. He had felt as if he were flying, flying so high and looking down at his mother on earth. She'd look so tiny the higher he flew, but she'd always have her arms open, waiting to catch him when he was ready to land.  
  
Brady slammed the photo album shut and pushed it back into its place on the bookshelf. He didn't want to look at anymore pictures tonight. He didn't want to hurt anymore; he was older now. Chloe had dared to call him an "almost adult." He was a full adult now, not "almost." He was older than she was, at least, and she would never understand why he felt so compelled to defend himself against the accusation that he was anything less than a man.  
  
"Brady, what are you doing skulking around in the dark?"  
  
Frightened, Brady turned around to find Belle standing timidly at the door of the study. She looked so young in her powder blue pajamas; it was hard to convince himself that she was Chloe's age and that he was merely two years their senior.  
  
"I'm just doing some research," he lied to her, biting his lip.  
  
"Sure, Brady," she told him with a yawn. She casually walked towards him and then turned to look at the books on the shelf which he was standing beside. "How could you possibly be researching for something using these old photo albums?"  
  
"Researching, recollecting--same thing," he explained. He pointed at the clock on the desk. "It's midnight, Belle. You should be sleeping. We mustn't forget Marlena's strict rules about waking up early on Sundays. We wouldn't want to be late for church, God forbid."  
  
"Brady," Belle scolded her older brother.  
  
"Oops." He held a finger to his lips mockingly, then said quietly, "Marlena might hear me taking His name in vain."  
  
Belle threw her hands up into the air. "I don't know why I even bother with you, Brady. I know you'd never come with us on Sundays. Chloe was right about you; you're a stubborn mule who would never sacrifice his bad boy attitude to join his family for one day at church. Who knows? It could probably do you some good." Belle tossed her brother a wearied glance and headed for her bedroom.  
  
"Chloe said I was stubborn, did she?" Brady murmered to himself. "I guess I'll just have to prove her wrong." He stared out the window of the study and into the night sky. He spoke to an invisible force. "The little boy who you damned so long ago will be paying Your house a little visit tomorrow."  
  
With that, Brady forced himself away from the window, away from his father's study, away from the aging sepia-toned photographs that proved a weakness in his confident stride up the staircase into his bedroom.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(smallfries@muted.com) 


	4. Presence.

(4) Presence  
  
  
  
The church pews were filled with tired adults and restless children. Chloe chose her seat carefully, not wanting to sit beside her parents who would undoubtedly be chattering throughout the entire session. She wanted silence that Sunday morning. She wanted piece of mind that she didn't think she'd ever find. Finally, Chloe chose a seat near the back of the room beside a window where no other people seemed to be interested in sitting.  
  
"Good morning," the minister said as he stepped up to the dwarfish podium. "First, I wanted to start off by reading a scripture from Matthew..."  
  
The elderly man's voice droned on in Chloe's ear. She could not concentrate on his words and instead stared out of the foggy window. Philip was never with her on Sundays. She felt mildly thankful for that; Philip suffocated her at times with his words. His ignorance to her past always added to the building wall between them.  
  
Philip, Chloe thought to herself, I wish I could tell you. You deserve to know. The window remained foggy even as Chloe pressed her warm palm against the glass pane.  
  
"Loneliness begets bitterness, m'dear."  
  
Chloe's head spun around to see the infamous Brady at her back. His hair was tousled into a messy array while his crisp grey sweater accented his jovial eyes. "You should know that more than me," she replied with narrowed eyes. Her gaze returned to the now opaque window.  
  
"I can't argue there," Brady told her. He took a seat next to her frigid body. "What the hell happened to your hair?"  
  
"I cut it," Chloe told him placidly.  
  
"Looks good."  
  
Chloe turned back to Brady's eyes almost happily. "What are you doing here? I thought all of this," Chloe said, gesturing towards the minister and the eager crowd, "was just a 'crock of shit.' And I quote."  
  
"Belle talked me into it last minute. She said it would do me some good."  
  
"Naïve Belle, preaching to the converted."  
  
"I could do without the sarcasm, Miss Lane."  
  
Chloe's eyes transformed into slits once again. "Brady, you're the one who's always so sar--"  
  
"Hey, let's try NOT getting into another debate, shall we?" Brady asked her, a half-truth, as arguing with Chloe Lane was constantly the high point in his week. Tossing insults back and forth with her always made his day. She was someone who was willing to stand up to his critical nature, someone who managed to keep him connected to social matters which he would otherwise dismiss with a curt comment. She kept him entertained. But was it more than entertainment now? Brady shook his head slightly.  
  
"I'm just surprised to see you here," Chloe told him. "That's all."  
  
The two sat idly for twenty minutes, both attempting to absorb what the minister was saying--something about being true to yourself, something about not letting the chance get away from you and seizing it firmly.  
  
"Want to get out of here?" Brady asked in a hushed voice.  
  
"To go where?" Chloe replied.  
  
"Just around. Salem Park?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
The two headed out of the church casually, their parents not realizing that they had escaped the sterile building together even before the minister had finished his sermon.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chloe pulled the thick black glasses from her face as she stared into the dying sun with squinted eyes. Her short hair whipped at her neck in the strong autumn wind as she walked deeper into the wooded trail with Brady Black at her side.  
  
"I heard about your mom," Chloe stated rather officially as they both stared up at the sun setting.  
  
"You did."  
  
"There's nothing I can really say now to make you feel better. I'm sure you wouldn't want to hear any more meaningless condolences from people who don't really care."  
  
Brady nodded as they ventured off of the trail into crowded trees.   
  
"But I'm sorry about your mother, Brady," Chloe told him, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "I really am."  
  
A smile played on his lips for a moment. "Thanks, Chloe."  
  
She understood him. In a twisted turn of fate, it was Chloe Lane who knew what he had gone through as a child and what he was still going through now. And in some meager degree he understood her, too. But it was obvious that she was holding something back from him. "Since we've covered my past, let's dwell on yours."  
  
"It's still quite sunny for the end of fall," Chloe noted, attempting to change subjects, but knowing she had to tell someone the awful truth. "Back in New York, it was never like this in November." Her transition in speech was swift, just as all her transitions had been in the past.  
  
Brady kicked up several golden brown leaves in his path, watching them surrender to the relentless wind as they flew helter-skelter in every direction . "New York? It seems like a tough choice of scenery for a girl like you. When did you live in New York?"  
  
Chloe shrugged. "You know, I can't even remember myself. I must have been about four or five years old at the time. My foster parents lived there and I was just happy to have a place to call home."  
  
Brady cocked a brow at the enigmatic girl walking alongside him. How little he knew about her. "It must have been tough growing up like that."  
  
"It was," Chloe whispered, more to herself than to Brady. "Things happened there that I would rather forget about."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
Chloe was surprised to see care lingering in Brady's eyes. She wanted to let him know why she wouldn't let him get to her. She wanted to scare him, to see something other than arrogance or contempt resting in his gaze. Let's see if you like what you hear, Brady.   
  
"Like what?" Chloe repeated his words. "How about fathers who don't exactly treat you like a daughter. Fathers who want something more than love from you. Fathers who come to tuck you in late at night when they don't have to. Their stinking breath slamming against your forehead. Wanting to be good, all the while wanting to cry out and kill him..."   
  
She broke down. Cried even. She would have punched herself if Brady weren't in her presence. "He raped me, Brady. Mark raped me."  
  
Even though he felt it, Brady refused to let sympathy or pitying shock exude from his expression. He pulled her into a tight embrace. Her body convulsed with tears. He wondered who she had told about this, but knew deep within that he was the first and last to ever know. Somehow, he just knew.   
  
He also knew that she didn't want his pity, not after five years of harbouring a horrible secret. "No one should have to go through that, Chloe," he told her as he pulled her chin to see her tearstained face. "Especially you. You're strong. I can feel that about you. I don't even have to look at you and know it. You're something different, Chloe." Still, Brady held her in his arms, wanting to shield her from her past and knowing that it was impossible to do so. He knew it because people had tried to do the same with him.  
  
The sun grew weaker as it threatened to fall under the horizon. Ribbons of purple and pink floated into the fading evening sky as the two of them walked deeper into the wooded area of Salem Park. Soon, they found themselves sitting side by side against a giant oak, thinking mostly and rarely talking to each other, all the while savouring each other's company.  
  
"Are you warm enough?" Brady asked Chloe, suddenly feeling protective of her. He offered her his thick sweater.  
  
"Brady," she replied, "I'm fine. Keep it on. You'll freeze for sure. Besides, I like the cold air. It's refreshing."  
  
YOU'RE refreshing, Brady thought. He gently took her hand in his, making it look like he was trying to stay warm against the freezing wind.  
  
Why I am still sitting here? Chloe asked herself. She glanced over at Brady whose eyes were locked on the sunset.   
  
Unexpectedly, Brady's head turned towards Chloe's eager expression. Warm brown filled his icy blue gaze. The pads of his fingers lightly brushed against her soft cheek as she ran her own hand down his arm.  
  
"Brady," she stammered silently.  
  
It was too late. Their lips clumsily felt for each other's. Their bodies pushed against each other's. Their souls collided with each other's. Brady's hand moved down Chloe's side as he felt her body finally give and lower itself onto the cold grass, leaves crunching beneath her body.  
  
Her mouth was so warm as their lips parted and their tongues touched eagerly. In a desperate hunger for her, Brady's mouth moved to her neck, each kiss sending foreign tremors throughout Chloe's body. The dying wind howled in her ears, reminding her of someone who was waiting for her that night. Philip.  
  
Chloe reluctantly pushed Brady away. "What are we doing? Brady, this isn't right," she told him. "I love Philip. I don't want to hurt him." Her line of sight shifted towards his eyes and caught a fear in them that she had never noticed before. "And I don't want to hurt YOU."  
  
"Hurt ME?" Brady almost snorted. He got to his feet, brushing leaves from his sweater. "What did you think this was, Chloe? My doting show of adoration?" He wouldn't even look at her now as his gaze turned to the darkening horizon and the swaying trees that cast shadows against his cheek. "You'd make a good fuck, Chloe; that's all. Thanks for the romp in the grass."  
  
He had forgotten what she had told him less than ten minutes ago. She had been a victim before; as a child, she had been violated. And now, when she was a young woman lost in the ache of her own past, HE was the one violating her. He had only meant to conceal the mysterious feelings rising from within him with harsh words, his tactic for anything that seemed to weaken his pride. He hadn't meant to hurt her.  
  
Tears stung Chloe's dry eyes and she quickly scrambled to her feet. "Fuck you, Brady," she cried out. "Fuck you and your unwillingness think about anyone else's feelings but your own. Fuck you and your shallow pride that will get you nothing in life but a loveless existence." Chloe's heart sank with a frightening discovery of the little boy in a grown man's body standing before her. His expression was silhouetted by the dying embers of the sun. Never had she felt such ardent emotion for one person encapsulated by such a thin sheet mutual compassion. "I pity you," she finally spat out.  
  
He watched her run down the unlit pathway and down the small hill, gradually losing sight of her, gradually losing her for good. The sun finally fell behind the horizon as a surrendered Brady made his way through the dark trees. The back of his neck burned with the sun's final rays stealing through the atmoshere and subsquently conducting his fate.  
  
He was wise to the sun, as he always had been.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(smallfries@muted.com) 


End file.
